


Dragons

by wanderingsmith



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, UST, hinting at past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-29 11:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14471235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingsmith/pseuds/wanderingsmith
Summary: “So, really.  What happened to my gun?”Bond shrugged, “A dragon ate it.”





	Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I play with 'em.
> 
> beta by [Fontainebleau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/works)

“007. Welcome back. Kept yourself in one piece, I’m glad to see. And my equipment?”

Bond handed over the radio, and nothing else, with his most practiced bland expression.

Q stared at the tiny, grimy piece of tech sitting demurely in his palm, then gave the sand-dusted man in front of him a dry look. “This is worse than Boxing Day, 007.”

Eyes widening for an instant at the friendly teasing when he’d expected a stern lecture, Bond laughed out loud, grinning at the man watching him with warm eyes, for all his smile was still twisted with disappointment at the demise of his precious tech. He finally shrugged and offered soothingly, “They all performed admirably, Quartermaster,” Bond couldn’t help tilting forward a touch with a deliberately tempting pout, “It would have been handy if I could call the gun to my hand…” The quirky boy was enough of a pleasure to banter with that he damn near tried batting his lashes just to see what he got in return.

Q just snorted, rolling his eyes, “You must learn to *do*, young Padawan.”

Bond huffed at the cheek, smirking at Q who was carefully doing something to the radio with a small probe before he slid it into a case of others with a moue of distaste. He supposed he should have given it a wipe, but his pocket square had been an early victim of all the excitement. 

He didn’t need to remain, but Bond found that he was at ease here, the usual strain of even a successful mission ebbing slowly away without alcohol or other palliatives with Q’s fussy but accepting presence.

When he was done, Q looked back at him with a quiet curiosity, “So really: what happened to my gun?”

Bond shrugged, picturing the movie-esque scene with irony, “A dragon ate it.”

He held the deadpan stare he got in return until Q finally cleared his throat with slow care, not a twitch visible, though Bond did look hard, “Was using that excuse how you got out of Eton, as well?”

“-Might have.” The completely unexpected subject actually threw him, and though he thought he had his reaction controlled, he was a little shocked to hear himself adding distantly, “Might have been being found with the headmaster’s wife undressing me, though.” He turned and sauntered out with careful ease, thinking that he’d left that drink a little too long. He should stock up before finding his well-secured flat.

\--

When he surfaced from a slightly longer than usual post-mission drink, three days and a dizzy shower later, he headed for the nearest pub for something greasy and salty, even if it meant walking through unconscionably un-British late-day sunlight for a couple blocks. He almost stumbled again when he caught sight of an Evening Standard headline board, and detoured a few stiff steps to grab a crisp copy, putting his back to the nearest wall to open it.

The whole second page was a splashed scandal of old complaints of abuse and assault by the wife of a former headmaster of Eton College: apparently there had been quite a list of parents demanding satisfaction, once upon a time; all somehow neatly buried.

 

Bond walked into Q branch an aggravating half-hour later and didn’t see Q, but a passing minion, shrugging into a jacket, must have read his searching gaze and offered a muttered “He’s in R&D” as he hurried through the doors, obviously late for his joyous commute.

Finding his quarry tinkering with the barrel of a Beretta, Bond cleared his throat from ten feet away so as not to surprise him, pleased when on raising his head, the man gave him an easy, welcoming, smile, “007? How may I be of service?”

As he stepped to within a foot of the workbench, Bond smiled back, very reluctant fondness warm somewhere below his shoulder, though that could be heartburn from his empty stomach whining about the hangover. 

“Thank you.” Before Q’s open mouth could turn to questions, Bond added more seriously, “Though I doubt that even warranted the Earl Grey.”

Q watched him quietly for a moment, then nodded, a flicker of grimness tightening his eyes, “Some jobs are their own satisfaction.”

Bond nodded, understanding the sentiment. “I hadn’t realized-”

Q shrugged from his aborted statement, looking kindly away to his mysterious tinkering, “It’s rarely isolated. If it somehow *had* been.. I’d have just killed her.”

He should leave. He’d done his thanking. He was long past doubting Q’s abilities to terminate a threat if he said he could. He didn’t want to discuss this. Didn’t want to remember, or debate sentences, or the dangers to one’s soul of administering them. As though MI6’s Quartermaster wasn’t fully versed on all those topics.

But he still stood there. And Q didn’t comment as he continued his work without letting the observation interfere.

“How did you guess?”

Q never looked up at the sudden interruption. “You may have been a brilliant enough 12-year-old to get admitted, but you were still only 12, and recovering from your parents’ death," his lips quirked slightly, though the attempt at amusement didn't go near his eyes, "In any case, if it’d been the other, I judged you’d have been smirking much more proudly.”

“..True.” It wouldn’t have stopped others from making the other call. Hadn’t.

He let his eyes droop as he continued to stand as though on guard duty. In a room empty but for the two of them. The quiet sounds of light tools carefully laid on the metal worktop, the rasp of cheap wool from a jacket against the rubber mat the body of the gun had rested on as it waited to be reunited with its altered tube; Q’s solid presence in a room that seemed his alone.

The old tunnel walls should make the dark cold and dreary, but the un-commenting engineer seemed to exude enough warmth that Bond didn’t find himself wishing he were somewhere sunny and warm, as he often did when left to his own devices, his old injuries and old thoughts, on grey days. Even his faintly aching head was content, the lack of bright lights and rowdy noises a welcome find; the presence of all kinds of deadly tools nearby making it feel a bit like a toy-store, however much he knew Q’d slap his hand sharply away from so much as touching anything here. You wouldn’t have thought a simple marble would cause such a fuss...

When he saw the Quartermaster trying to juggle a screwdriver, a mini-torch, and the reunited barrel, he reached out wordlessly, palm curving with easy familiarity around the grip to hold the gun steady, amused at the ‘Ta’ grunted without any of the man’s usual posh casualness as he proceeded to crouch and twist his torso to do something hopefully eventually leading to explosions for Bond or one of his cohorts. It made the garish clothing he wore somewhat less grating: a decent suit would be ruined by the spattering flux, let along that brief cluster of sparks.

It wasn’t quite how he pictured Q when he was far away; though he knew he would, from now on.

His stomach picked the moment the torch turned off to grumble audibly and Q’s head jerked up in surprise. Bond met his raised brows with a wry smirk, “I suspect you haven’t eaten any more recently than I have; would you care to get something to eat?”

Green eyes studied him, mostly with curiosity instead of the suspicion he was usually met with, and then with a forced amusement that hinted at politely restrained sympathy. “I have Anadin in my office. And there’s a Mexican place not terribly far that should be able to supply an acceptable evening-after meal.”

Bond’s smirk softened to a grin and his stomach literally gurgled its enthusiasm for spice and carbs. “Lead on, Quartermaster. I’ll not only drive wherever you tell me, I’ll even take you home after paying the tab.”

Q smiled back at him amiably, “Best call to get us a table, then, Wahaca’s can get busy. It’ll take me at least 20 minutes to tidy up loose ends.”

Tugging his phone out as he strolled out, Bond threw behind him, “I’ll be in front. Don’t dawdle, Q, you’ve got me in the mood for a Mexican feast and I’d hate to have to hunt you down and throw you over my shoulder if you were late.” He was grinning as the sound of Q’s odd hooted laughter followed him until he turned the corner.

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.wahaca.co.uk/menu/food/
> 
> thanks and apologies to [Lene3161](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lene3161/works) for catching my (I swear) uncharacteristic lack of research that led to my having Bond orphaned and at Eton at 10. I'm not entirely happy with the feeling resulting from the 'fix', but.. close enough that I will call AU if it makes anyone unhappy.


End file.
